


Prime Suspect

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Impala Fic, Law Enforcement, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:45:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Henricksen gets more than he bargained for on a cold winter night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prime Suspect

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Camp/Bunker Secret Santa!
> 
> Kristin, have a FANTASTIC Christmas :)

The case is going nowhere.

Dean slams the book shut with a groan and stands to stretch, ignoring the librarian's glare, and turns to Sam. "I'm gonna go check out the gravesite again. You good here?"

Sam nods, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "Yeah, I think I finally found the right book of microfilms. Call me if you find anything?"

Dean nods, already standing his books by Sam's pile. "I'll pick you up in a couple hours, all right?"

Sam gives a distracted wave and Dean shakes his head, fighting an affectionate smile at his geeky brother. Sam could spend all day in the library and still want to come back for more, but Dean's more a man of action than the kind of guy who can read all damn day.

The Impala's waiting for him right where he left her and he grins as he slides behind the wheel. The case is kind of a weird one, even for them; each of the six victims seem to have died in their beds of natural causes, but their bodies were flattened to less than an inch thick. Gross. Dean's pretty sure they've lost their FBI stalker and the weather's that crisp, cold kind of winter evening that makes everything seem brighter and sharper. He starts the car and heads onto the road, turning the tape player up until the car vibrates with the strains of AC/DC. The graveyard where the last four victims are buried is just ten miles away but the roads are small, twisty and icy and he doesn't want to take any chances, so he takes each curve slowly and carefully.

The sky's starting to darken as he pulls onto the road the graveyard straddles and he frowns, glancing up. He's pretty sure it's not even four o'clock, so why’s the sky so dim?

That's when he notices the massive clouds bearing down on him fast and sees the first snowflakes land on the windshield. They start to patter faster and faster across the hood of the car as he flicks on the lights and grips the wheel tighter.

He's just trying to turn when there's a shout behind him and he glances in the rear view mirror to see a figure silhouetted in the dim light.

"Shit," he mutters to himself, lowering the volume on the music as he navigates the accumulating snow. " _Shit._ " It's Agent Victor Henricksen, FBI, who he'd been sure they'd left behind four states and three days ago. He's jogging after the car, jacket flapping in the wind and snowy clumps clinging to his shoulders and hair.

It's absurd, Dean can't help thinking, as he tries to avoid fishtailing on the sudden two inches of snow. It's the slowest chase he's ever been in, the Impala rolling down the road at ten miles an hour, Agent Henricksen slip-sliding on foot in the snow behind as he tries to catch up.

The snow's falling harder now, building up faster than Dean thought possible, and he swears silently at the Minnesota weather as he tries to control the car in the slippery stuff.

They’re over a mile from the graveyard and Dean hasn’t seen any sign of Victor’s car, and he’s starting to get a little worried against his better judgement. The agent’s just trying to do his job, after all, and he’s pretty fucking good at it when he’s not chasing Winchesters. Dean would really rather not have some actual murderer go free because Agent Henricksen slipped under the Impala’s tires.

The snow is blinding, swirling across the dash, and Dean can barely see the road in front of him between the snow in the air and covering the pavement. Victor has fallen behind now and as Dean watches he nearly slips on a patch of what looks like serious black ice.

 _“Fuck,_ ” Dean mutters, carefully slowing the car and turning her in a tight loop, slowing to a stop as he draws up alongside the agent and rolls down the passenger window, sliding over and leaning out into the blizzard, wincing as flakes fly onto the leather seats. “Hey there.”

Victor looks up at him through the drifting cloud of flakes and glares, reaching for his gun. Dean smirks a little when his hands close on air. The gun had fallen out a mile back, the second time Victor nose-dived into a snowbank. Dean had decided it wasn’t the best plan to let the agent know about the loss.

“Need a lift?”

Victor stands carefully, eyes blazing. “No, Mr. Winchester. I need you to get out, turn around and put your hands on the car.”

Dean snorts. “It’s a blizzard, and you want me bent over my car? _Kinky_ , Agent Henricksen.”

Henricksen rolls his eyes and Dean sees his shoulders relax a little. Dean grins. _He can’t help it,_ he thinks, _I’m adorable._

The wind is picking up, and Victor shivers once, just a quick shudder, and Dean sighs. “Dude, it’s fucking freezing. Just get in the car.”

Victor’s jaw drops. “What?”

“Get. In. The. Car.”

“I  don’t take orders from murder suspects, Winchester.”

Dean shakes his head, letting his eyes drift shut. “We’re miles from your car, if you can even find it in this weather, and it’s gonna get even darker when the sun sets in a few minutes. So just get in the damn car, all right? At least you won’t freeze to death.”

Victor’s still hesitating, but Dean can tell he’s on the edge of agreeing. It’s pretty fucking cold, after all. “Didn’t know you cared, Dean.”

“Not gonna let you fucking die out here, dude. I’m not that much of a dick.” Dean slides back a few inches and swings the door open, shivering as the cold wind triples in the larger opening.

The agent starts to shake his head, but then a huge gust of wind nearly knocks him off his feet and he swears under his breath, climbing into the Impala and slamming the door. Dean grins at him, the wide, shit-eating grin that he knows will drive Victor crazy, and the other man just glares back at him. “Not a word.”

Dean just grins at him.

\-----

The snow’s falling even faster now, and after the Impala fishtails a third time Dean sighs into the uncomfortable silence of the car. “I gotta pull over, dude. We’re not makin’ it back to town in this weather.”

Victor shifts in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, and stares at the man beside him. 

Dean parks neatly on the side of the road, tires slipping only a little, and meets the agent’s eyes. “Look, I know you don’t wanna be here. I don’t really want you douching up my car either, all right? But we’ve gotta wait out the snow a little if we want to survive the trip back.” He glances at the gas gauge and swears. “And we’ve got like a quarter tank left, so running the car all night’s not really an option.” He turns the key, shutting the car off, and reaches behind the seat.

Victor tenses, watching him closely from inches away as Dean digs at a bag on the backseat. Finally, he lets out a _Hah!_ and slides back into his seat.

He shoves a wad of fabric at Victor, who hesitates.

“Gonna start getting cold in here pretty soon,” Dean says gruffly. “Wrap up.”

Henricksen looks down at the blanket in his hands, then back up at Dean. “You’re serious.” It’s not a question.

“What? I told you, I’m not gonna let you die. Especially not in my car.” Dean tosses a blanket around his own shoulders and sighs. “Doesn’t look like it’s gonna let up anytime soon. You wanna drink?” He pulls a flask from his jacket pocket and offers it to Victor. “It’ll warm you up.”

“You’re serious.” The agent’s staring at Dean, eyes narrowed. “You think you can offer me a ride and a drink, and what, change my mind about you? Get an inside man? What’s your game, Dean?”

“What? No!” Dean’s eyes are wide, shocked. “Just don’t want your corpse on my nice leather seats, dude. You’re just doing your job.”

“Yeah, my job. Where I try and catch you. And arrest you _._ ”

Dean pulls the flask back, sipping from it himself. “Well. Yeah. But not just me.” He looks away, sighing. “You know, you’re not the only one who did his research. You’re a good agent.”

“You think so?” Victor’s surprised, and a little thrown. There’s a lot of ways he’d imagined tonight going, starting with him catching Sam and Dean red-handed desecrating a grave, souvenirs from a dozen cold cases on his person. He’d taken that goal down a few notches as the evening had progressed, first to just ‘catching Dean Winchester,’ then to ‘finding some evidence’ then to ‘finding my goddamn squadcar in this snow.’ Then there’d been a brief bout of optimism when he’d seen the Impala, but then he’d lowered his expectations down to ‘don’t freeze to death or be brutally murdered.’

Now, somehow, he’s sitting in a warm, dry car, wrapped in a blanket, being complimented on his skills by the very fugitive he’d been hoping to catch. It’s jarring, to say the least.

But he’s been in the car for half an hour already and he’s not dead yet. And who knows how long Dean was tailing him before that.

In fact, Dean’s had hundreds of opportunities to kill him, and given the Winchesters’ history, Victor can’t quite figure out why he’s still alive.

He lets out a long, slow sigh and holds out his hand to the other man. 

Dean stares at him for a moment, then grins, and Victor’s struck by the genuine happiness in the expression. Dean’s eyes crinkle, dimples forming in his cheeks, and he slaps the flask down into Victor’s palm. The metal’s cool against his fingers, and Dean’s skin is warm against his palm, and Victor pulls away quickly to unscrew the cap and take a swig.

It’s whiskey, warm and golden as it pours down his throat, and he can’t help but let his eyes drift shut for a second as he savors the taste and the way it heats his belly. He holds the flask out, passing it back to Dean, and unfolds the musty blanket. It’s large, fuzzy, and looks like it’s lived in the car for at least as long as Dean’s been alive. He gives it a discreet sniff as he settles it around his shoulders and wonders at the herby scent that clings to the fibers.

“Should be clean, man,” says Dean, and Victor looks up, startled. “I promise. Me and Sammy washed them all a few states back.” Dean reaches beside the seat and tugs a lever, reclining the seat as far as it goes and wriggling to get comfortable.

Victor raises an eyebrow. “Would that be in, uh, Andover, Massachusetts, with the missing hand? Or maybe out in Michigan, where I guess you two had some sort of problem with Christmas trees and old people?”

Dean snorts, shaking his head and taking another drink, slouching in the seat a little. “You know I can’t tell you that, _Agent_.” He shakes his head. 

“Worth a shot,” says Victor with a shrug, grabbing the flask back for another gulp. 

A part of him is horrified at this. He’s in a car he’s been tracking for months, alone with someone he’s pretty certain has killed at least twenty people, and yet–

And yet somehow he’s almost completely at ease.

He thinks back to that lawyer, the one who he’s sure had a hand in getting Dean and his brother out of Folsom Prison. He thinks of Detective Ballard in Baltimore, and of all the other witnesses he’s interviewed on this case. Almost everyone he’s talked to has defended the Winchesters, swearing that they saved people, that they got rid of whatever the problem was.

And he thinks about the weird pattern, the fact that a few weeks after they show up in a town, the problems _stop_. He’s always figured they’d just gotten places before people saw them, started early then played the hero, but in a few cases, the timelines just don’t match up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean, watching him with those damned green eyes of his. He’s seen Dean charm people; he’s got that bad-boy attitude and innocent face that somehow makes people fall at his feet.

Victor’s fought it off for months.

Now he just hopes it’s evidence, not white teeth and eye-crinkles and a shared drink of whiskey, that’s making him question things.

He shivers a little, pulling the corners of the blanket more closely around him. He’s grateful for his FBI-issued fleece-lined jacket, and he spares a glance at Dean as he tries to tuck his hands completely inside the sleeves. _Jesus, gotta be below freezing in here._

Dean’s worse off than he is, though, in battered jeans with a rip at the knee and an old leather jacket that’s seen better days. There’s a blanket over his shoulders, but it’s not doing much good. He’s shaking pretty constantly now, little tremors running over his shoulders, and Victor shakes his head. “Got any more blankets back there? You’re looking a little cold.”

Dean snorts. “What, you worried about me?” He looks up, meets Victor’s eyes and tries to smirk. The effect is dampened by the chattering of his teeth and the redness in his nose and cheeks, and Victor just glares back. Dean sighs. “No. This is all I got. Let the rest–” he cuts himself off. “This is all of them.”

Victor hesitates a moment, battling the curiosity that makes him a good agent, before giving in. “Where’s Sam, anyway?”

Dean’s head whips around, that fiercely protective gleam in his eyes. “Nowhere you guys’ll find him.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Victor raises his hands in surrender. “Just makin’ conversation. It’s not like I have any way of reporting back in this.” He gestures at the snowy terrain outside, now covered in at least eight inches of fluffy white and capped by swirling gray masses of clouds.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean sighs. “He’s, uh, not feelin’ too good. He usually gets a cold this time of year that knocks him out for a few days.” His voice is fond, and Victor’s struck again by the depth of feeling he can hear in the man’s voice. “He’s kind of a whiny bitch about it, though.” He sighs. “Kinda wish he was here, though. No offense, man.”

“Hey, you’re not my top pick for people to be trapped in a car with, either,” Victor retorts. He offers the flask back with a sardonic smile, softening the blow. “But–” he leans forward, squinting in the dark– “looks like we’re stuck here a while.”

Dean shakes his head. “Yeah.”

They sit in silence a few minutes, passing the flask back and forth and watching the snow fall. It’s nearly completely dark now, just a single streetlight a dozen feet up the road that’s flickering dimly, and Victor watches Dean.

“You know, this is the first time I’ve seen you without your brother,” he says, conversationally. “You split up like this often?”

“Dude, why would I tell you if we did?” Dean’s grinning at him. “But, uh, sometimes. I guess.” He takes a sip and looks out the window. “He’s a grown man now. I’m trying to remember that and let him do his own thing sometimes.”

“Is his thing different than yours?”

Dean nods, still staring out the window. “I, uh– I used to think I was more like Dad, you know? Sammy got out, he was living the normal life, and I was Dad’s– I was following in his footsteps, taking over the family business, whatever. But now, after Jessica–” he shakes his head. “Man, I don’t know anymore. Maybe Sam’s more like Dad than I thought.”

Victor lets out a long breath. “I always thought so.”

“Yeah?” Dean turns back, meeting Victor’s eyes squarely. 

“Yeah.” Victor holds his gaze. “Didn’t think so at first, but–” he shakes his head. “Sam’s got that drive, that anger at the world, like it’s done him wrong. You do the job, but seems like you don’t _feel_ it the way Sam does.”

Dean snorts. “Maybe.”

Victor hesitates a moment, the warm whiskey making him loose and a little dizzy. “Dean,” he says, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Dean’s still staring carefully, focused on Victor’s face, green eyes just barely visible in the dim glow of the streetlight.

“All of it. All the– the ghosts and the monsters and whatever the hell else you people claim to– to hunt.” There’s a roaring in his ears as he speaks, a feeling like he’s running off the edge of a cliff and there’s nothing to break his fall.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is quiet, somber, and out of place with the loose, alcohol-tainted feeling of the last few hours. It’s almost– almost apologetic. “It’s real. It’s all– yeah, it’s all real.”

“So those people– the ones who all say you saved them from things– they’re telling the truth?”

Dean nods. “Yeah.” He sighs. “Look, Agent–”

“–Victor. We’re a little past the formalities, don’t you think?”

Dean tips the flask towards him in acknowledgement, shrugging, and continues. “ _Victor._ I don’t think you really wanna go down the rabbit hole with me.”

Victor bristles. “Why not? I’d rather know the truth, Dean.”

“You can’t go back, though.” Dean’s leaning closer, elbows on his knees and body canted towards Victor’s. 

Victor can’t help but lean closer as well, into the warm fire of Dean’s body heat, and he’s caught again by the intensity of Dean’s expression. “I know.” He thinks about his first year at the FBI, fresh out of Quantico and full of the dream that he’d set evils to right and change the world every single day. 

Instead, he’d found paperwork and compromise, rare successes and far more frequent dead ends, and the idealism of his early days faded quickly into an empty apartment and a fridge full of half-eaten chinese food and a nightly pair of beers.

There’d been people who made things easier, for a while. First there was Susan, his high school sweetheart, who he’d married just after he started at the Bureau. She taught music to elementary school kids, and she was everything he wasn’t. She’d cried for every missing child, for every dead father and murdered mother and Victor watched it break her down slowly, tearing her optimism and vigor for life down until he couldn’t stand it. He was pretty sure she was married to a piano tuner now, happy in Scranton with two kids and a dog, and he hoped she was happy. 

There’d been Rachel, who’d been CIA, but their marriage just became twice the cases brought home and twice the anger and loss. There was no escape there, no easing of stress, just a mirror of his own pain. As far as he knows, she’s still fighting the fight out there like he is. 

So now there’s no one, and watching Dean Winchester, he can’t help but see a parallel. Dean’s got Sam, yes, but Victor isn’t sure if one brother, no matter how close, can make up for how totally removed they are from the world. The things  they must see on a daily basis, if all he’s read is true–

He shakes his head. _The truth is still better than hiding_ , he thinks. _Isn’t that why I joined the FBI in the first place?_

“I want to know.”

\-----

Vampires and werewolves, rugarus and wendigos, ghosts and demons and pagan gods– they’re all real.

And Dean’s apparently fought them all.

It’s a lot to take in.

Especially when the temperature just keeps dropping.

He can see Dean shivering constantly now, and though he’s a little warmer, he’s pretty sure they’re not going to make it through the night if it keeps getting colder. He shakes his head, trying to quiet the voice saying _this is still a criminal_ , and scoots a little closer on the bench seat.

Dean’s head whips up, suspicion in his eyes.

“It’s cold,” Victor offers. “Getting colder.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s still watching him carefully.

Victor sighs. “Look, as lovely as this is, I’d like to still be alive in the morning. So we’re gonna have to share body heat. No use wasting it.”

Dean’s face turns sly. “Agent Henricksen, you don’t have to pretend it’s for _body heat_. You can just admit that I’m _adorable._ ”

Victor rolls his eyes. “Get over here, Winchester.” He holds the edge of his blanket up, and Dean, after a moment’s hesitation, slides down the bench until they’re just an inch apart. Once he’s under the edge of Victor’s blanket, he yanks his down and tucks it neatly around their thighs.

Now they’re up against each other, sides somehow pressed together, in a quickly warming cocoon. Victor’s not sure where the inches between them disappeared to, but there’s a solid line of heat against his thigh. His arm’s trapped awkwardly between them and he shifts a little, trying to get it comfortable.

There’s a huff from Dean, just a warm exhale that he can feel ghost across his neck, and his arm’s sliding behind Dean as their bodies curve in towards each other and suddenly the awkwardness is gone. 

The flask is finally empty and Dean sets it aside, capping it tightly. 

“Better?” asks Victor, fighting the urge to lean in and– what, _snuggle_ his suspect? He’s not even sure. But the warm fizz of alcohol’s making it difficult, especially with Dean’s muscles relaxing bit by bit against his arm.

“You know–” Dean’s voice is contemplative, quiet even in the snow-hush of the winter night– “you’re not so bad, for someone who wants me dead.”

Victor lets out a huff of laughter. “And you’re not too bad yourself, for a confessed serial killer and possible psychopath.”

The streetlight’s glow glints off Dean’s grin, and it’s easy to lean closer and laugh with him, Dean’s hand dropping onto his thigh as their eyes meet.

It’s just as easy to let the grins drop from their faces, slowly replaced by a static Victor’s not sure how to ignore.

It builds between them, filling the space within their little cave of blankets and tracing a slow, slow path along Victor’s leg where Dean’s hand is slipping upwards. The cold Victor had felt only moments ago seems gone completely, replaced by pounding hearts and warm breath and the feeling of a sliver of bare flesh between Dean’s jacket and belt where his thumb rests.

He runs his thumb across the patch of skin, enjoying its warmth, and Dean shudders a little under the touch but leans into it.

“So you seem pretty prepared for this, Dean,” says Victor, voice husky as his hand slides a little further under Dean’s shirt. “You spend the night in here often?”

“Often enough,” Dean replies, fingers trailing along the crease of Victor’s dress pants. “She’s pretty comfortable, if it’s not for too long.”

“Hm.” Victor’s not paying much attention to anything beyond the hot flesh under his fingers and the warm buzz of whiskey in his belly that’s slowly changing into something else. It’s all sort of blending together, and he leans into Dean’s side. “I’ve spent a few nights in my cars over the years, but they’re not half as comfortable.” His hand’s now running up and down Dean’s lower back, fingertips tingling. “But I doubt I’ve put it to as, uh, exciting uses as you have.” He lets out a breath of laughter. “And they’re from the motor pool, so I feel a little bad getting ‘em too dirty.”

“No backseat action for you, Agent?” asks Dean, breath warm on Victor’s cheek. “How about that. I’d’ve pegged you as more of a Casanova.”

Victor snorts. “Maybe so. But not in borrowed cars.”

“This one’s not borrowed, though,” says Dean, voice barely a whisper, and Victor can’t hold back a shiver that’s got nothing to do with the weather that’s still raging outside.

“No,” he replies, finding himself even closer than before, less than an inch between their faces. “No, this one belongs to a wanted felon.” His other hand, the one that’s not working its way across all the warm, taut skin of Dean’s muscled back, falls on Dean’s knee. “A hardened criminal.” He slides it up a few inches, matching Dean’s on his own thigh. “A dangerous man.”

“You think I’m dangerous?” There’s a challenge in Dean’s voice, and in the way his fingers are stroking along the inner seam of Victor’s pants.

Victor can feel himself hardening in his pants, a combination of the charged energy, the warmth of the blankets and the touch. “I think you could be.”

Dean grins at him, cocky. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And that’s it, somehow. Something shifts and they’re impossibly closer, eyes locked on each others’ and Dean’s mouth millimeters from Victor’s. A moment later, warm lips land on Victor’s own and his eyes drop shut as a groan escapes him. He curls his arm around Dean, pulling him closer and enjoying the feeling of all that warm skin against his forearm and fingers as Dean deepens the kiss. Dean follows the movement, turning and swinging a leg up and over until he’s straddling Victor’s lap. From there it’s easy to pull Victor back in, enjoying the feeling of lips against his own, and Dean can’t help but slide a hand down to tug at the agent’s firmly tucked shirt.

Victor’s hands are warm and broad, fingers calloused from guns and pens and hard work, and Dean leans into the touch of the pads as they ease his shirts and jacket up. The kiss breaks for a moment as they slip over his head and Dean takes the opportunity to take care of the buttons on Victor’s shirt and toss that aside as well. The car’s heat might be off, but their bodies and their breath are keeping it warm enough now, or at least they’re not feeling the cold quite as badly. Dean lets his hands wander across Victor’s firm stomach and shoulders, grinning when a fingertip drifting over Victor’s ribs makes him start. “Dude, are you _ticklish_?” He does it again, and this time Victor lets out a growl and twitches away. “Is that even _allowed_ in the FBI?”

“I _will_ shoot you. Next time I have a gun, I will shoot you in your pretty face if you do that again.”

Dean grins even wider. “You think I’m pretty?” His voice is teasing, light, and he purposefully trails his hand up to brush a nipple.

“You know you’re hot, you dick,” Victor growls, leaning forward to drag his teeth over Dean’s neck. “And you get away with too much because of it.”

“What, like this?” asks Dean, fingers running down Victor’s side.

Dean’s relaxed, comfortable, and he’s completely unprepared for Victor to surge upwards, flipping the both until their bodies are pressed together from thighs to chest, his legs caught between Victor’s broad thighs and his arms pinned above his head in one of Victor’s fists.

He strains against the grip for a moment, then relaxes when he realizes he’s not going anywhere. He looks up to meet Victor’s eyes and for a moment there’s a question there and Dean can’t help the way his face softens as he gives the tiniest nod of permission.

Victor’s lip curls up into the barest smirk and he gives a slight nod back, then lowers his head into the juncture between Dean’s neck and shoulder.

Dean gasps at the sensation of teeth, lips and tongue exploring every inch of skin and he can’t help but buck his hips up when Victor’s hot breath brushes the curve of his ear.

Victor grinds down in response, the hot line of his cock sliding against Dean’s through wool and denim and Victor’s cotton boers and Dean still can’t help the moan that slips from his lips.

“You like that?” asks Victor, voice barely a whisper and so low it’s just a rumble next to Dean’s ear. “You do, don’t you. You like it when I hold you down like this.”

“You never know,” gasps Dean, “I could take you any time.” He writhes up, drawing a groan from Victor as Dean’s legs shimmy out and around the other man’s hips, ankles crossing behind Victor’s knees.

Victor leans hard on one elbow as the other works its way in between them to fumble with their belts and buttons and zippers. Dean’s not exactly helping, starting a slow, steady rhythm with the smooth roll of his hips.

Finally their flies are undone and Victor lifts his hips just enough to shove Dean’s jeans, then his own dress pants and boxers down their hips. His breath stutters as he encounters bare flesh much sooner than anticipated under Dean’s jeans and Dean meets his eyes and smirks again. Victor shakes his head, feeling his lips pull into a smile, and lets go of Dean’s wrists to wrap one arm around the other man’s waist while the other snakes between their bodies to brush along Dean’s cock.

Dean’s hands, now free, slide down Victor’s back greedily to settle against the swell of his ass. One squeezes gently, fingers pressing into firm muscle, while the other drifts further down and slips against the crease and downwards until it’s brushing the back of Victor’s balls. Victor shudders and gropes for both cocks, gathering them in one hand and thumbing moisture from the heads to slick down the shafts. Both gasp at the feeling, tight grip balancing against the feeling of velvet hard flesh against their own. Dean’s the first to thrust, finding Victor’s lips again and kissing deeply at first, then just breathing raggedly into Victor’s mouth as both pick up speed, thrusting in counterpoint as the heat in the car builds.

It’s Victor who breaks first, streaking hot wetness across Dean’s stomach, and biting down on a nipple as he lets out a long groan. Dean shudders and comes as well after a few strokes, writhing against the pleasure and pain zinging from his nipple straight to his cock.

They lay in silence a moment, their harsh breaths the only sound, before Victor reaches down and tugs his undershirt from the pile of twisted fabric in the footwell. He mops up the come and sweat spread between them, rolling up on an elbow and wiping in gentle strokes across Dean’s belly and groin. Dean sighs, pressing into the motion, and Victor can’t help but smile at the other man’s lazy stretch.

“So Agent Henricksen,” says Dean as he settles against the Impala’s leather seats. “You do this with all your suspects? Or only when you need to, uh, share body heat?”

Victor snorts, panting a little as he squeezes down onto the bench between Dean and the seat back. 

Dean just grins and rolls a little closer, tucking the blankets firmly around them both and burying his face in  the agent’s shoulder.

\-----

Dean raises his head from where it’s pillowed on a shoulder and squints. Everything’s bright white, glowing in the sunlight, and for a moment he’s not sure what’s going on.

Then a dark head rises beside him, eyes blinking blearily. “Snow stopped?” asks Victor, yawning.

“Mmm.” Dean pulls himself upright, wincing as muscles that didn’t appreciate a night in the backseat pull. “Think so.”

It’s a different world out there, glittering with ice and snow, and for a moment Dean just takes it in. It’s hard to imagine this is the same world he spends his life exorcising of evil. Right now it looks like a fairytale, like something out of a kid’s book.

They sit for a few minutes, shoulders pressed together in the body-warm car watching the sun glitter through the trees. Dean’s hand rests on Victor’s knee, and Victor’s arm is slung over Dean’s shoulders.

The moment breaks when snowplow chugs through, clearing the road just a foot from the car, and Dean clears his throat, pulling away and running a hand over his face and through his hair and checking the time on his phone. “Should be okay to drive by now. Where to, Agent?” 

There’s a challenge in his voice, a tease, and Victor grins in response. “Drop me off at the field office, and I’ll give you a few days’ head start.”

Dean grins back. “Really think I’ll need it?”

A hand slides up his thigh, bold and warm. “I think you might.”

Dean’s pretty sure that head start’s gonna have to wait a few hours.

 

 


End file.
